


Five Times Sherlock Needed The Drugs, And The One Time He Didn't

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is a Mess, it's not as bad as it sounds i promise, just angsty, tw: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were five time in Sherlock's life that he needed the high that cocaine gave him more than he needed air in his lungs or blood in his veins, but, then there was one time, one very special time, that he didn't need it. </p><p>Warning: If I wrote this right, be prepared for a feels rollercoaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock Needed The Drugs, And The One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, so just really quick, it says this in the tags, but I just want this to be clear, there is a trigger warning on this for a suicide attempt and for drug use, so if either of those trigger you, I would read with caution.
> 
> Also, I know that in the show, Lestrade said he knew Sherlock for five years before John came into the picture, but I thought I would give him some extra scenes. I hope that's okay. 
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy!

**I.**

Bored.

_Bored._

_BORED._

Sherlock Holmes was experiencing the worst case of boredom is his life. Uni was treacherous, the teachers had the intelligence of tadpoles, the students were cruel and twice as stupid as the teachers, and there was just _simply nothing to do._ The chemistry student was lying on his back in his bed, glaring murderously at the ceiling, his brain positively _aching_ with the dullness of the data wall in front of him.

An idea passed through his mind, and it was not one he actually liked the idea of, but for the moment, it was considerable. His flatmate, Sebastian Wilkes, an almost insufferable kid whose ego was so enflamed that it could be seen from the next galaxy, was a cocaine dealer. But, it wasn't just cocaine, it was high quality, expensive, top market cocaine that was so nice, it was suppose to give you the best high with even taking a minimal amount. Not only would he feel like a god, but his adrenaline would spike, his mind would race...

And the boredom would stop.

Jumping off of the bed, Sherlock raced over to Sebastian's drawer and pulled out the black case that he kept the drugs in. It took him less than a minute to figure out the lock combination, and to remember what his flatmate charged for the drugs, all while he was measuring out what he wanted to take. Once the white powder was measured and cut into lines, Sherlock fished the amount of money he now owed Sebastian out of his wallet, and threw it on his bed, then he leaned down, and took in his first line.

He had been right when he thought he'd feel god-like. Immediately, he felt like he could lift cars or run a marathon, and his thoughts were absolutely racing in his head. The data wall began to crumble and sort itself all into different sorts of rooms, making it easier to think and run. His body felt electrified. It was the best feeling he had ever had in the whole world.

When Sebastian Wilkes finally came home and found his flatmate sitting on the floor, coked out of his brains, he only laughed. "Bloody hell, Holmes, you freak. You could have just asked." He said.

Sherlock lulled his head to the side, still smiling and half drooling, and pointed to the wad of cash on the bed. "I'll b' back fer more.." He drawled.

Seb only laughed.

** _____________________ **

**II.**

Within a few months, Sherlock was thoroughly addicted. He used almost every single day, normally before classes, just to make himself feel faster, then at night, just because. He loved it. The drugs made him quick. He could think and store tremendous amounts of information in seconds, and it was absolutely wonderful.

But, he also loved the drugs for another reason, and it took him a while to figure it out, but once he did, it eased his mind.

The drugs made him feel normal. All his life, he had felt different, alienated, and for lack of a better word, like a freak. Of course, with a mind like his, it was hard to feel normal. While his brother had an amazing mind like his, Mycroft was smarter, as much as he hated to admit it, and Mycroft made him like an idiot half of the time, while everyone else made him feel too smart to be around them. It was hard, falling in the middle like he was, at one moment feeling like he was intelligent, then coming home and feeling like he wasn't at all.

He wasn't a social person. In fact, Sherlock hated being around people, not just because of their ordinary brains, their ordinary lives, or their ordinary, boring selves, but because he didn't understand. Sebastian told him once that the reason no one liked being around him was because he had no concept of human nature. He was rude, he was cold, he'd make inappropriate deductions, Sebastian had even go as far as to say that he was like a bad cold. Sherlock had laughed. He didn't even try to explain the sinking he felt as his heart dropped to his stomach. After all, he was a freak, he didn't have feelings.

While on drugs, there was a perfect balance. He was always cheerful enough to be around people, no matter how he hated the other people, but he was able to function like a human being in public. He felt normal. He felt smart. The drugs made him feel like he was on top of the world. So, he took more and more, and the more he took, as every day, he felt better. He felt human.

** _____________________ **

**III.**

Victor Trevor was the best thing to ever happen to Sherlock Holmes.

Tall, thin but toned, dark haired, almost as intelligent as Sherlock himself, he was a proper wonder in Sherlock's eyes, and he also happen to be Sherlock's flatmate during his second year at uni. He got rid of Sebastian Wilkes the first chance he got, he couldn't stand the idiot anymore, so, when he got assigned to Victor, he was instantly in love. Victor was sweet to him, made him feel wonderful, and never once treated him like he was any less of a person.

Victor also did just as many drugs as Sherlock did, which was why they got along so well. Victor gave him cocaine, and was the reason he was now shooting up instead of snorting. "You can't snort it, baby." Victor had said one night while they were lounging around in their room, naked and in a tangled mess on the bed. "It'll ruin that beautiful mind of yours." He ran his fingers across Sherlock's cheek, making him smile. "I'll show you how to do it right, and it'll feel so much better." The boy's silky caramel voice could get Sherlock Holmes do anything.

And so, he did it. They got the drugs, and when it was time to shoot up, Victor even helped tie the belt. They decided to shoot up at the same time, and when they were ready, Sherlock pushed the drugs into his waiting vain, and immediately felt the effects. His blood felt warm, and he felt heavy headed. He was calm, relaxed, and slightly sluggish, but it was a beautiful feeling. He could hear the blood pulping in his head, but it was a dull sound, the type of sound he could fall asleep to, like the rain falling outside his window, or the sound of the TV that his parents would watch the late shows on. It was the opposite of snorting cocaine. Sherlock didn't feel like a God, instead, he felt like a big bear that was going off the hibernate for the winter. That feeling, mixed with the feeling of Victor's arms around his torso, pulling him down toward the bedsheets and whispering _I love you_ in his ear, were two things Sherlock wanted to feel over and over and over again.

But, it was short lived.

Once day, while he was in his favorite chemistry class, two police officers came into the class and began speaking with the professor softly. Sherlock watched his professor carefully, watching the woman as the officer whispered something to her, and she immediately went wide eyed. Her hand flew to her mouth, obviously out of horror, and she seemed to look directly at Sherlock.

The chemistry major's heart dropped to his stomach when the younger of the two officers came walking over toward him, looking anxious and unsure. He was obviously newer, as he didn't seem to hold the same type of calm composure that the older officer did. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The young officer asked him, his voice gravelly.

"Yes?" He replied warily.

The officer bit at his lip. "My name's Greg Lestrade, I'm from Scotland Yard. I uh... Will you come outside with me for a moment? I need to ask you a few questions, if that's okay."

Sherlock swallowed hard, anxiety already rippling through his body, making him shake where he stood. "Alright." Leaving his backpack behind, he followed the young officer out of the classroom to the hallway, where he stood against the wall.

The officer, apparently named Lestrade, shuffled his feet uncomfortably on the floor before looking up at the student. "Sherlock, um... I need to ask you, how close were you and your flatmate, Victor Trevor?" He asked.

"Victor's my boyfriend." He replied quickly, ready to defend him at any cost. He and Victor had a pact that if the police ever came sniffing around, they would get each other out of it, no matter what happened. But, just as he tried to come up with another response, he ran through what the officer said again, and his blood froze. "Wait... You said 'were'."

Lestrade's eyes softened with what could only be described as regret, and possibly pity, and he took a deep breath. "Sherlock... Did you know that your boyfriend was into drugs?"

His breathing quickened, and soon, Sherlock found himself on the verge of hyperventilating. "You said 'were', what did you mean?" He demanded, ignoring the question. "Tell me, please! Why did you say 'were'?" His voice beginning to rise frantically. This wasn't about an arrest. Something else had happened, and it wasn't good.

"Sherlock..." The officer began quietly.

He didn't need to say another word. Sherlock's eyes went wide, and his throat tightened.

_No._

_Oh, God, no._

_He's lying._

Lestrade locked eyes with him, already seeing the tears filling Sherlock's eyes, knowing that he already knew what he was going to say. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. They found Victor's body this morning. He... He overdosed."

 _"No! You're lying!"_ Sherlock screamed in the officer's face before running off down the hallway, ignoring his shouts of protest. He needed to get to Victor. He needed to. He needed to know he was okay.

Sherlock ran all the way back to their flat, and was horrified to already see that there were already police everywhere. _No, this is wrong._ He ran forward, pushing through the tape and various officers, sprinting straight up the stairs toward their room. The door was already opened, and from his place in the doorway, Sherlock could see the officers in the room pulling a sheet over the body on the floor. Sherlock didn't believe it was him. It could be. Victor wouldn't die, Victor was careful, he was smart with drugs, he always knew what he was doing. _He loves me, he wouldn't leave me._ Then, one of the officer's moved out of the way, and Victor's face came into view.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion then. Sherlock's world suddenly went silent, although he could feel himself scream. His knees went weak, but he still began to run forward, throwing himself down by Victor's body, screaming for him to wake up. He was suddenly grabbed away from the body by a strong, unfamiliar pair of arms, and he began to scream and kick in protest as they dragged Victor's lifeless body out of the room, away from Sherlock. The boy didn't stop fighting, still screaming hoarsely toward the door, tears making his throat tight.

Finally, after a long fight, Sherlock crumbled onto the floor, trying desperately to catch his breath, while the officer kept a grip on him, trying to talk to him. He heard Lestrade's voice from somewhere deep in space, talking to him about going to the hospital, or something or the sort, and that his brother was on the way. Before they could get him off of the ground, Sherlock began to run again, blindly, not really sure where he was going.

Eventually, he stopped running, and slid down the wall in an alleyway, his hands shaking horribly as he reached for a cigarette. Sherlock felt numb. He couldn't think straight. Victor wasn't dead, he couldn't be dead. He wouldn't leave Sherlock like that. _You saw the body, you idiot._ The other half of him screamed. He wanted to follow Victor, but couldn't bring himself to. Not yet. Not yet at least.

He needed a fix.

With trembling knees, he got to his feet, flicking the half finished cigarette butt out into the street, and quietly walked away, disappearing into the crowd, just as he had for so many years.

** _____________________ **

**IV.**

The drugs kept him sane for a while, but all too soon after Victor's death, the shock, the denial, the anger, the depression, it all started to come in violent waves, one after another at random moments. Sherlock started becoming worse and worse as the days went on, and as more time passed, he got deeper and deeper in his drug addiction, spending more time in drugs dens than actually in class, although he still excelled in class no matter what. He needed the drugs to keep his head on tight, and half of the time he was so high, he could barely get out a complete sentence.

Sherlock Holmes never described himself as _sad._ Never once in his life had he ever considered the term. He wasn't sad, he wasn't broken. He was angry. He was so very angry at Victor and the rest of the world, he couldn't even think straight. No one understood that, but of course, he expected no less from a bunch of idiots. Most everyone was anyway. He never expected such pity from Mycroft though, not in a million years. His brother had practically written the book on how _caring is not an advantage,_ but that didn't seem to make a difference.

One day, a few months after Victor's death, Mycroft invited Sherlock over for tea. It was a harmless visit, but from the moment he walked into the elder Holmes' sitting room, he knew he was in for a long evening. They sat in silence for a while, Mycroft just continuously looking him up and down, obviously aware that his brother was on yet another bender.

"How are you doing?" He finally asked, though he already knew.

Sherlock stiffened, not meeting his brother's gaze. "Fine." He lied.

The elder Holmes, well aware of the lie, sighed heavily and put his tea cup down. "You know, Sherlock," Mycroft started to say, rather condescendingly. "You think I cannot tell when you're not doing well, and you, brother dear, are _not_ fine."

He snorted. "What do you know, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped.

"I know that you aren't okay, and-"

"I'm not sad anymore, if that's what you mean." He interrupted, keeping his gaze level with Mycroft's. The elder Holmes seemed baffled by the sudden interception, but said nothing about it, only leaning in further. Sherlock averted his gaze to the painting of the agitated lake on the wall, focussing in on the light crashing waves as he released the breath he had been holding in for a little too long. "I never really _felt_ sad, but I didn't feel anything at all, really. Thinking back, feeling sad would have been much better in comparison as opposed to feeling nothing. Sad would have been a much better option." He concluded, suppressing a shiver.

Mycroft cocked his head, once again leaning in with interest. "How do you figure?"

A soft, barely-audible sigh escaped through Sherlock's nose. Putting words to this was hard. "It feels good for a while, being numb, because you don't feel the pain. But, once that wears off, you're just left with this cruel, apathetic taste for everything that you come into contact with, and everything begins to feel like someone pulled a shade in front of your eyes, and all you can see is how ugly everything is. But, you don't feel it, you just see it." Sherlock paused, giving Mycroft time to write his little mental notes while the younger Holmes silently regained his composure. "You start to wonder if you ever actually cared in the first place, or if you're just another part to the machine that nobody bothers to clean off."

"How... Poetic." Mycroft replied, his voice clipping. "You're so profound when you're inebriated, brother."

Sherlock's body tensed up with rage, but he said nothing. Mycroft would never understand. But, he wouldn't humor him and give him what he wanted by fighting back.

Seeing the change in his brother's posture, he relaxed his stance, and sighed. "Sherlock... I'm sorry."

That was where Sherlock snapped.

"Don't attempt to waste my time with false sympathy." He snapped venomously, startling his brother. "You're not sorry, you just don't know what else to fucking say."

Before Mycroft could make any other argument, Sherlock was up on his feet and storming out of his house, going straight back to his flat. He needed to be alone. He was so angry he was seeing red, and there were now hot tears brimming behind his eyes, threatening to overflow. He got to his flat rather quickly, not entirely sure he got there, but at the moment, he didn't care.

The moment his door was shut, Sherlock took out his stash of drugs, not even trying to discard his scarf and coat properly, just throwing them to the floor. Out of his cabinet, he pulled a large wooden box that he and Victor used to keep their drugs in, and began to get it ready. He had had more than enough.

Everything came crashing down around him at once. Everything he felt for for many years, the alienation, the anger, the pain... He was either too smart, or not smart enough, he was always alone, the only person who acted like he cared for him at all was dead. He had nothing, he _was_ nothing, he would _always_ be nothing. His own brother gave him nothing but pity and couldn't stop being condescending long enough to even try to understand that the entire world seemed to have some sort of personal vendetta against him.

Or maybe, Sherlock was just being a child.

Maybe he was every bit the child Mycroft thought he was, and he was just being an idiot.

This was his fault.

He had chosen to care, and now look at him, stuck a drug addict, wasting his mind away because he chose to give up on what was once important to him, and care too much about other things that didn't matter.

_You stupid boy._

Sherlock couldn't stop the tears anymore, which made him feel even more disgusted with himself. Without even thinking, he grabbed the needle, already filled, and plunged it deep into his vein. He needed it. He didn't want to think anymore. He wanted everything to be over, everything to be done. He pushed the drugs into his veins, feeling the overwhelming sensation almost instantly. He knew it was too much. He knew it would do the job right.

_It's okay to step on a dead flower._

The last thing Sherlock heard before he succumbed to the drugs was a familiar, gravelly sounding voice at his door, and he smiled to himself, knowing they'd be too late.

*******

Sherlock awoke in the hospital, only days later. Mycroft was sitting in the chair at his bedside, sitting upright with a look of sadness on his face. It was one that Sherlock had never seen before. The young officer who had found him, Lestrade, was sitting in the other chair at the end of the hospital bed, fast asleep and snoring lightly. It looked like neither of them had ever left.

He was angry at first, angry at Mycroft and angry at the officer for saving him. He felt betrayed. He felt stupid. He didn't want to say a damn thing to his brother, and luckily, Mycroft didn't want to say anything to him either. He just watched over him, made sure he ate regularly, ignoring the snide comments about his diet, made sure he slept, and made sure he got through the withdrawal.

One day, when the withdrawal seemed to die down enough for Sherlock to think clearly, he woke up to find the young officer studying a case file, and asked to see it. Lestrade seemed hesitant at first, but eventually, he agreed, and moved to Mycroft's unoccupied chair, sharing the case details with him. It took Sherlock all of five minutes to figure out the murderer, and when he did, Lestrade's jaw dropped, and he was utterly mystified. Sherlock told him it was easy, and he could do it with any case if Lestrade was willing to let him help. The young officer was happy to oblige.

Thus, Sherlock the Consulting Detective was born.

But, the drugs were still a problem. Sherlock started using again shortly after leaving the hospital, which of course, put strain on the job and made Mycroft furious. He was able to solve cases when Lestrade was able to sneak them to him, but that was rare, and when he couldn't solve cases, the boredom came back, and the drugs called his name.

Five years and three overdoses later, at the age of twenty eight, Mycroft gave Sherlock a choice; stop the drugs, or he would never work another case again.

By twenty nine, Sherlock Holmes was clean.

** _____________________  **

**V.**

Sherlock had never meant to get involved with Charles Augustus Magnussen, but when the monster tried to kill John Watson, Sherlock decided he had no choice. He figured it out quickly after they caught Moran that Magnussen was the one who put John in the fire, and he knew he had to act quickly because Magnussen knew his biggest pressure point, and would do anything to send the detective's heart to pieces.

John Watson was the only person in Sherlock's life that he ever decided he needed beyond a reasonable doubt. From the first day at Bart's, Sherlock found him intriguing. He was a soldier, he was a doctor, he was charming, and despite the fact that Sherlock was an arrogant dick 99.99% of the time, he still found him brilliant. From their first conversation at Angelo's, all it took was one charming smile, and Sherlock was enchanted.

They worked together on cases for months, just as flatmate a and friends, but the underlining tension, both sexual and romantic, was overbearing at time. Of course, it was all figurative, as Sherlock had sworn off romance since Victor, and John never passed up an opportunity to point out that he wasn't gay and that he had Sherlock were only friends. But, deep down, they both knew it wasn't true.

But, just when Sherlock had gotten around to realizing that he was in love with John, then came Jim Moriarty. Then came Irene Adler and the fall, and next thing he knew, he was off in Serbia being beaten and tortured, all for John, and the doctor didn't even know he was alive. He tried for months to come up with a way to talk to him, a way to tell him the truth and not make John hate him, and just when he thought he got it right, John became engaged.

He had been too late.

He liked Mary, sure, it wasn't her fault, she didn't realize that Sherlock was in love with her fiancé, and why should she? There was nothing left for Sherlock to do then, John was getting married. So, he threw himself into the wedding plans, just to be with him for a little while until he was whisked away from him again. If only he had done his job quicker. But, it was stupid to fantasize. It only made him worse.

But, nothing could have prepared him for what Magnussen was going to do. Once he realized that the monster was after him, Sherlock immediately thought of a plan. So, he ended up back in the drug den, using again after so many years of being clean, just to keep him away from John. He would have done _anything_ to keep the man away from John. He didn't exactly like the idea of having to use again, but it was the only way. Nothing else would have been believable.

The drugs brought the bad thoughts back again. He didn't feel good to begin with, he missed John, he was starting to feel that loneliness again, that sinking, ugly loneliness that made his skin crawl, but the drugs didn't help him. He felt worse, he felt lonelier, and every single night, when he wasn't too fucked up to move, he'd be dreaming about John, and it brought tears to his eyes, knowing that John would hate him if he found out. John would hate him if he knew. John would take one look at him, give him a disgusted look, then walk away forever. Of course he would. Why wouldn't he?

But, yet again, John surprised him. He _didn't_ walk away. He looked sad, he looked angry, but not because Sherlock was using, but because he wasn't around to help. Sherlock had lied and said it had been all for a case, but it was only half true.

The next time he used any sort of drug was after Mary shot him. For six months, he was shut up in 221B Baker St. with John as his personal doctor, and their relationship took a wonderful turn. Finally, there was romance, there was love, and Sherlock felt better than he had in years, despite having just been shot. John told him, baby or no baby, he was never going back to Mary. After Magnussen's death and Sherlock's escape from exile, Mary Morstan was arrested, the divorce was finalized, and John returned to him, fully his, after waiting for so many years.

"But," John had said the night they got together for the first time. "You have to promise me, of we're doing this for real, no matter the situation, no matter the case, you will never touch drugs again."

Sherlock didn't need to hear it twice. "Of course, John. I promise." He had replied honestly, crossing his heart. He meant it.

Their life after that was blissful, as they spent years solving cases and being as happy together as it was possible to be. Even when they couldn't run anymore, they retired to Sussex, getting a beautiful house in the country for themselves where Sherlock took up beekeeping, and John began writing stories about their cases. It was beautiful, it was domestic bliss, and no drug could ever compare to it.

** _____________________  **

**I.**

The cancer took John by storm. One day, they drinking tea in the garden after a day of beekeeping, smiling and laughing, and the next day, they were in the hospital, sitting in front of a tired looking doctor who gave the ex-soldier six months to live. John kept himself composed, and Sherlock did too for the most part, until they got back home, and before John even got the door closed, Sherlock was on his knees on the floor, gripping his chest so tightly that it hurt, positively howling. John joined him on the floor, freely weeping now, holding the sobbing detective to his chest, rocking him back and forth while he begged and pleaded for John not leave him. John couldn't muster up anything to say.

The next few months were the hardest of Sherlock's life, watching John get sicker and sicker, watching him wither away, becoming less and less every day. They had visitors, Molly and Greg of course, Mike Stamford, Sally and Anderson, Irene Adler, a few of John's army mates, Mycroft... The most surprising factor was the large bouquet of roses that showed up at the cottage one day, with a card that had no writing on it, except for the initials on the bottom of the stiff paper; _JM._

They went to Italy. John had always wanted to go back, as they had only gone there once on a case, and they had been so wrapped up in the case that they had had no time to just enjoy the country. So, they went for a few weeks, and it was lovely. They went everywhere John wanted to go, and for the first time since the terminal diagnosis, John's eyes were bright and he smiled a bit more. He was still sickly, but he was _happy._ That was all that matter to Sherlock.

The last day before John went to hospital for the last time, he and Sherlock went back to 221B one more time, which they still owned, but hadn't visited since Mrs. Hudson had passed a few years back. They sat on the sofa, the one they had shared their first kiss on, got drunk, and reminisced on everything they had done in the years they had been together, from their first case, to their first kiss, to the Jesus-Christ-you-two-are-finally-fucking-together party that the Yard had thrown them, to their wedding day... All of the happy memories that they shared from so many years of being together. It had taken so much, a faked death, an assassin wife, a bullet to the chest, a faked pregnancy and a nasty divorce to bring them to their much deserved happy moment. John cried, and Sherlock held on to his own tears until John was already asleep beside him in their old room.

John died the next Tuesday in the hospital with all of his friends and his family surrounding him.

Sherlock sobbed.

He sobbed harder than he ever had in his entire life.

That was how the ex-detective, tired and aching with his aging and loneliness creeping up on him from the floorboards and the cracks in the walls, ended up outside the drug den he had spent weeks in at a time when he was younger. He was standing at the wall, waiting for the dealer to come back out, trying to get up the courage to do this.

"Hey, mate, you go the money?" A young, redhead mate who looked no older than twenty mumbled to the ex-detective, fishing around in his hoodie pocket for the small plastic bag that held the white powder that Sherlock so desperately craved.

He turned toward him and started to pull out the money from his pocket, ready to just get this over with...

Then, he stopped.

For whatever reason, or perhaps for absolutely no reason at all, Sherlock hesitated. He thought back, realizing that his whole life had been about drugs and keeping a constant high to keep himself sane... But, even after that, John was then, and still was now, the greatest drug he had ever experienced. That man, that perfectly ordinary, beautiful, passionate, _loving_ man, had taken someone as broken as Sherlock was, and turned him into something so much more than that. He had healed him, even if he didn't know he was doing it. John Watson had taught him that he was worth loving. John Watson had loved him with every fibre of his being, and made sure that Sherlock knew it every single day of his life.

The drugs made him feel normal, but John made him feel _real._

With a look to the clouds and the beautiful contours of red and orange and purple from the setting sun, Sherlock Holmes closed his wallet, and with a smile, looked up at the boy, pushing the drugs back into his hand. "I don't need it." He said simply, then turned on his heal and walked away.

Sherlock smiled to himself, a genuine smile for the first time in almost a year, because he knew deep in his heart, somewhere, John Watson was smiling too.


End file.
